


å være en perfekt datter, dekket av blod

by ProwlingThunder



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha women and omega men are intersex, Alpha!Lutz, Alpha!Morga, Alternate Universe - A/B/O, Anxiety, Dysfunctional Family, Fully Functional Hermaphrodites, Gen, Going a-Viking, Hermaphrodites, Hunting, Lucio's Traumatic Upbringing, Morga's A+ Parenting, Omega!Lúcio, Pre-Vesuvia, Raiders, Scourge of the South Tribe, Sexism, Slavery, Slaves, Tribals, alpha/beta/omega, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: Morga was thealpha of alphasand the only reason she ever let his father put his dick in her was because she needed an heir, and Montag..Well. Montag doesn't have that much in common with Morga.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18
Collections: That Writing Place Fic Drop





	å være en perfekt datter, dekket av blod

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGypsyQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGypsyQueen/gifts).



> _å være en perfekt datter, dekket av blod_ is, according to google translate, _to be a perfect daughter, covered in blood_.
> 
> Valentines Gift Box Drop for TheGypsyQueen.

He’s born wrong.

Nobody says it, of course. At least, not to his face. Who would say Morgasdottir had been born wrong?

But Montag knows. He was born wrong. Not an alpha like his parents, which was ridiculous, because  _ of course _ he was an alpha like his parents, Morga was the  _ alpha of alphas _ and the only reason she ever let his father put his dick in her was because she needed an heir, an alpha child to replace her, and of course Montag was going to be the best alpha daughter for the clan, of course he was--

Which was the problem.

Montag knows before anybody else, biologically speaking, at least. But the whole tribe knows Montag can’t hunt a boar on her own, doesn’t want to loot the corpses after a raid, doesn’t live for the thrill of the hunt like her father. She’s never been injured. She wants the leadership but she’s never had to carry the duty, and her mother spoils her relentlessly, they all know it, she doesn’t even tent with the young hunters but has a hut to herself.

Montag’s young, when his first moonsblood hits; not even a day over thirteen, only barely a teenager. It’s awful. It’s more awful because Montag knows what’s going on; Morga had ripped open prey on a hunt once and forced him to suffer through a long biology lesson not too long ago. Inner linings of the uterus are being flushed out, swollen and shedding without a child grown inside the womb. His mother had been so  _ proud, _ had stayed in the village and brought him teas to ease the ache.

“What really helps,” Morga had told him bluntly, all of thirteen years old and still untouched and not particularly wanting to drink the stinking tea, “Is sex. We’ll capture a weak man you can overpower for your next winter.”

“Why does it help?” Montag asked, even though he really,  _ really _ didn’t want to know.

“Works the lining loose,” Morga shrugged. “Flushes it out. It’s the trials of being an alpha, Montag. We suffer like base prey to be stronger for the hunt.”

“Will it ever stop?” he moaned, flopping his head back into the furs.

“Eventually,” she allowed. “When you die.”

Thus were the beginnings of puberty for an alpha daughter of the South.

Which, all around, made his thirteenth year actually the best year of his young life, despite, you know, suffering horribly once a moon as his body divested itself of unused materials. It still felt wrong, calling himself Morgasdottir, when he was so little like his mother. He was given more duties around the village, not much, but little things. Organized ventures into the woods. 

When spring came around next, Morga put him in the raiding party, and they traveled long and hard, some thirty of them, until they came across a clutch of homesteads, a pitiful little thing, and they all swept in.

Lucio didn’t know how many he killed, himself. But when it was over he stood in the village center with shaking hands as his mother surveyed the damage and the other hunters broke to gather up what was left, hauling back food, blankets, wine and water.

Dragging back people, throwing them before his mother’s feet. An old woman by her hair, clutching a squawling babe to her chest. A handful of people in varying states of dress, some covered in blood and viscera where their bedmates had been killed next to them, when they descended in the darkness.

One was a young man not much older than Montag himself, clutching a swollen belly with both hands. He was drug before them, strong alphas on either side holding onto an arm and leg apiece, and still he writhed and struggled and cried. One of their hunters bore a brilliant gash on his face, where someone’s knife had cut a cheek apart, but it hadn’t done him any good in the end.

They forced him to kneel before Morga by standing him up and then knocking his knees out from under him, saved from hitting the dirt only by their supporting arms. Montag edged closer to listen; his mother had already killed two alphas who’d been subjected, citing that alphas from this clan were  _ weak. _

And they were. The Scourge had some injuries, but none of their people were dead.

Morga raised an eyebrow at the sight. “What is this?”

“Pregnant omega,” Vigi sneared. Montag’s blood went cold. “Caught Felagi with a knife when we killed his mate,” On his otherside, the man in question showed off a tiny wooden-handled thing with a blade that should have been shining. “Knew you’d want to judge him.” 

“Omegas are worthless,” Morga told them both flatly. “Kill him.”

“Mother,” Montag cut in, stepping forward. The omega had gone wide-eyed and pale at her proclamation, and Montag knew she’d do it. There  _ weren’t _ any omegas at home. He’d heard some of the older ones talk about them, like they’d known some, and some others wish for a  _ soft slick omega to ride my cock, _ but those talked about them like they were… Like they were legends.

Like Montag’s weaknesses, no one ever said anything about them in his mother’s range.

“What, girl.”

He forced himself to steady trembling fingers, wishing he could suddenly stall for time. Now that he’d cut in, he wasn’t sure what to sa--

“The babe could be an alpha,” he pointed out, and her lips curled into a sneer.

“Omegas beget omegas.”

“But the father is an alpha.” He looked at Felagi for confirmation. The man bristled a bit but nodded, obviously hating to have to talk to him at all. “So the babe may be an alpha as well. The verdict should hold until the child is born.”

Morga finally looked at him, and he resisted the urge to shiver. Like so often, he suspected his mother could see right through him. But he was still alive, so perhaps he was better at faking everything than he thought… “And what would you have me do then?”

There was no  _ real _ way to save this young man’s life. Not really. But Montag could feel the terribleness of it all in his guts, and he had to try. “If the alpha is strong, we keep it. And if he throws an alpha once… he may do so again. And he’s not…  _ terribly _ unpretty,” he managed to smirk, a little, making a show of looking the youth over. “I wouldn’t mind pinning him down a while. No one  _ else _ here is the slightest bit of interest to me.” He motioned to the rest of the captives, his gut clenching. 

But their lives weren’t largely in contest at the moment. Oh, the elderly, of course. But the young and fertile, who could work and warm beds? No, the men would take to them  _ well. _ They’d live.

For a long, terrible moment, his mother was quiet. And then she turned her gaze away from him back to the men. “You heard her. Tie him up and brand the man for Morgasdottir. And you,  _ hora,” _ she pressed the tip of her spear against his belly and then slowly drug it up, tilting his head, resting it against the hollow beneath his jaw. The omega trembled, barely breathing in fear, eyes locked on her. “If you want your child to live, pray to whatever foul spirits you have that they’re an alpha.”

Vigi and Felagi drug him off, disgruntled, dismissed, and Morga turned to  _ him _ instead.

She looked… almost warm. As warm as he thought she could ever be, in the middle of a captured encampment surrounded by their slaves. He didn’t dare flinch when she reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it tightly.

“Spoken like a true leader. You are truly my heir, Montag.”

He smiled, grateful, not having to fake it even a little. Relieved. “Thank you, mother.”

“The tribe will thrive beneath an alpha woman like you.”

He didn’t dare correct her, but he knew the tribe wouldn’t thrive beneath him at all. Not the way it was. Not if they kept killing all the omegas.

After all, he wasn’t an alpha at all.


End file.
